Karma
by SpringFlower
Summary: "Maybe it was karma." Charles is in a bad place after the accident.
1. Chapter 1

It was at times like these that he wished he had telekinesis.

He stared morosely at the book, discarded carelessly on the floor. How was he supposed to pick it up when it was all the way down there? He could call Hank, of course. Even Alex or Sean would be willing to pick it up. But Charles Xavier's pride was too much – he would never ask for help on such a simple task.

So instead he lifted himself delicately off the chair and placed himself on the floor. It wasn't a smooth transition, involving a lot of grunting and struggling and flopping about, and the chair rolled away from him by him accidentally slapping it. But he had succeeded – he was on the floor, and no one had seen his shameful descent to the ground.

Arranging his legs carefully, he picked up the book and tried to immerse himself in it. He found himself failing spectacularly. Every word, every line seemed to point back at him, screaming in his mind, "You're crippled! You can never walk again! You're useless!" until he finally threw the book away, frustrated and feeling very, very alone.

That was when Hank walked in. Hank took in the scene – the book resting several feet away from Charles, the way he was so carefully arranged on the floor, the chair lying just out of reach. Then realization dawned on him, like he was the one with telepathy and had plucked the information right out of Charles's mind, and he surged forward.

"No, Hank, I'm perfectly all right," Charles said, immediately. "Just getting a book."

He batted away Charles's protests and picked him up, despite the half-hearted way Charles pushed at him to let him go. Then Hank set him down in the chair and threw a blanket over his legs, which Charles would never admit that he was extremely grateful for.

But Charles didn't need to say anything, because Hank looked like he knew. Of course, Charles was probably accidentally airing his feelings through his telepathy, but that was a hard truth that Charles didn't want to think about right then.

* * *

><p>Maybe it was karma. For all the horrible things he had done in his life – he thought back to the shallow nights filled with topless women, picking up girls with corny pick-up lines. Maybe it was the way he had treated Raven, filled her with insecurity despite his best efforts. Or maybe it was his personality, the way he worked.<p>

That was it, he decided. Something was just wrong with him, a deep-imprinted flaw that finally manifested physically through paralysis. Well, if he had such a flaw, it was something ugly, something horrible that he didn't want others to see. So he would keep quiet about it, hide himself, make sure that no one knew that he was a horrible person.

With that decision, he focused on the task at hand. It was several weeks after the accident at the beach – it was an accident, Erik was fundamentally a good person who didn't mean to harm his friend – and Charles had already completed several projects in the mean time. He had made his mansion handicap-friendly, installing elevators and ramps and lifts and everything needed. Cerebro was installed deep in the basement, courtesy of the brilliant Hank McCoy. He had gone on a recruiting spree already (helped mostly in part of Hank, who Charles had difficultly admitting that he wouldn't survive without). He refused to let his handicap stop him from doing what was necessary.

The mansion was filling up with mutants already, run-aways and orphans and people who were confused. Charles was now painstakingly designing classes for the younger students, tailored specifically to their needs, as well as outlining potential training that he could put them through to show them to use their powers. It would be difficult, much more difficult than before, but Charles was confident that he could still teach them control, just like he had the others.

A gentle knock on the door brought him out of his musings. A quick probe showed that it was Hank. "Come in!" he called, shuffling the messy papers together quickly to prove to Hank that he was still neat, still keeping everything together. He didn't need help.

Hank walked in, followed by a younger girl with white hair. The girl looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

"Hi!" She looked nervous, uttering the single word in an overly loud voice to portray bravado.

"Hello there," said Charles, sending waves of comfort to her. "What's your name?"

She calmed down marginally. "Ororo. My name is Ororo." She hesitated, like she didn't want to reveal her last name, and Charles stepped in gracefully in order to help her along.

"Well, Ororo, you've come to the right place." Charles smiled at her again, and this time he didn't need to send a feeling at her in order to calm her down, because his smile seemed to cure her on its own.

* * *

><p>Charles stared into the mirror. He smiled at himself. Then the smile slid off his face, revealing the sadness beneath.<p>

His smile, he felt, was fake. He was incapable of giving any true comfort, any real reassurance. Yet Sean and Alex still seemed to cling to him, as if being in his presence would uplift them. He made sure that they left every encounter with him smiling and confident, both sure that things would work out in the end. Hank knew better. Hank was smarter, much too smart for his own good. When Hank was around him, it almost felt like Hank was trying to comfort _him_, as if _he _was the one in need of a smile.

But Charles knew better. Charles knew that there was something fundamentally wrong with him, wrong with his very person, and that he didn't deserve comfort. He couldn't get Erik to stay, could he? Or Raven. Both of them must have seen the darkness in him at one point, grown afraid, and that's one of the many reasons they fled.

Charles just knew it.

* * *

><p>He had terrible nightmares at night, and he woke up after each one, panting and sweaty and begging to every power in the universe that he hadn't accidentally aired his troubles. Then, after his heart had stopped pounding and racing, he would pull his chair over to his bed and struggle into it, wheeling himself to the elevator and going to the kitchen for a cup of hot tea.<p>

It was odd, he mused as he sipped at his tea. He now divided his life into two eras – before paralysis and after paralysis. Before paralysis he loved hot chocolate. He and Raven would sometimes sit up for hours, just talking about their days and their dreams as they emptied cup after cup of the delicious steaming liquid. Now, he drank tea, bitter and unsweetened, just like his life had become.

Before paralysis he had had a family, unorthodox though it was. He had had Raven, depended on her, practically lived for her, to give her a better life. Then his family grew, grew to include Hank, Angel, Sean, Alex, Darwin – and most definitely Erik. Erik, who was like a brother to him.

Then his family began to split. Darwin died, Angel defected. But still, Charles had hung onto the deteriorating web of relationships, struggled against the overpowering current to keep them together. And then Erik left. Took Raven with him.

Charles took a deep drink of his tea, burning his tongue. It was the least he deserved, because he couldn't even convince his little sister and his brother to stay with him. Couldn't convince the little sister, who he had known practically his entire life, that he was worth something, that he too deserved love.

Another epiphany dawned on Charles. Maybe, just maybe, he didn't deserve love.

Just maybe.

* * *

><p>Hank was growing concerned.<p>

Oh, he would never tell Charles that he was getting a little scared. Not in his lifetime. But, regardless, he was beginning to worry.

It wasn't anything big. Just the little things. Sometimes Charles would make a little offhand comment, something innocent, that would tip Hank off. It had never unsettled Hank more than the day when Charles nonchalantly said, "Recruiting will be much easier when I'm gone."

When Hank had quickly enquired if he was going to leave, Charles looked at him blankly, like he hadn't realized he had even said anything out loud.

But his actions spoke louder than words. Hank would find Charles sitting on the floor in pursuit of some item, refusing a helping hand. Hank had taken to helping Charles out with or without his permission. And then the face that Charles would make – he could fool everyone else, but Hank had known Charles before the accident. He knew a genuine smile from Charles, and the twisted grimace that he was presenting before everyone else was not it. Sure, it set everyone else at ease, but it raised the hairs on the back of Hank's neck. Whenever Hank would bring it up with Charles, it was like his face just shut down, a blank poker mask that wouldn't budge until Hank finally left the room.

And then there would be the nights, those horrible nights, that Hank would start awake, a deep, distressed feeling resounding in his mind for only a moment before completely fading away. Hank knew that the Professor was having nightmares, was practically tortured when the sun went down with the could-have-beens and the what-ifs. Hank was also sure that he was the only one who woke up, because both Alex and Sean looked confused when he asked them.

And Hank also knew that there was only one thing that he could do to help out Charles. Hank couldn't talk to him. But he knew someone who could.

It was time to get in contact with Magneto.


	2. Chapter 2

Hank snuck out when Charles's back was turned.

It was no easy task, especially considering Charles was a telepath who could easily seek him out just by extending his mind. Hank had to enlist the help of Alex and a couple of the new recruits, all of them eager to bestow upon Charles some of the generosity that he had so wonderfully gifted them with.

It was heartbreaking, Hank mused. Absolutely heartbreaking. He saw the hero-worship in the eyes of everyone around Charles, saw how they trusted him with their very lives. Here was someone who had given them a home, food, clothes, a life that didn't involve running. They would do anything for that man, the man who welcomed them into his house with no questions, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth and warming his eyes. And yet, that very man was convinced that his own worth was nonexistent, that he could simply leave this world and no one would be the wiser.

No, Hank thought. No, people would definitely notice if Charles Xavier disappeared.

So it went without saying that when Hank announced to the assembled mutants that he was embarking on a journey to help the Professor, everyone's hand was raised to help.

"I'll need a distraction." Hank's eyes swept throughout the room, his mind racing. Any moment the Professor could realize that half of the students were grouped together in one of the rarely-used rooms of the mansion, dust swirling around them and the lock firmly set. All he needed to do was gently reach out and guilty thoughts would be screaming out that they were planning something for him. He had only invited half for this reason, but they were still a conspicuous bunch. Hank was hoping against all hope that Banshee, who had been informed of the meeting prior, was making good on his word and "accidentally" breaking a window in the kitchen.

"I can help." Hank's eyes lit upon Alex, who had stepped forward hesitantly. "I mean, everyone knows I have anger problems. So, if someone in here says something that sets me off…" Alex paused here, trying to find the right words. "What I'm saying is, I can either punch someone out or –"

"No," interjected Hank. "No punching anyone out."

"Let me finish," said Alex, looking for a moment like all he wanted to do was punch Hank himself out. "Or someone could just say something and I can take my anger out on, I dunno, the gardens. Just start blowing stuff to pieces. That way, Charles will be occupied calming me down."

"We want to help too!" protested one of the newer recruits, the name of which Hank had guiltily forgotten.

"Well," said Alex, looking thoughtful, "Why don't we just have a huge situation unfold? I mean, the Professor usually respects our privacy and stuff, but in this case he may want to read my mind to see what set me off. So, if we overwhelm him and don't give him the chance…"

"Like have the children run up to him while he's trying to calm you down and have them start crying about…." Hank cast about for a topic, but was pleasantly surprised when the newest girl – Ororo – spoke up.

"I accidentally shocked Scott and he's angry about it," she said, poking the boy next to her happily. The boy scowled. Another new recruit, Hank thought.

"Yes, yes," said Hank, getting more optimistic as the time passed.

"And then I took a nap and had a nightmare!" another girl called out.

"Yeah! And I accidentally flooded the bathroom!"

"Yeah! And I fell out the window!"

Hank blinked. "Well, yes, that will all help, but don't give him an aneurism."

"What's an aneurism?" asked one girl.

"It doesn't matter," said Hank, beginning to feel a little lost. "Just… just make sure to keep the Professor busy, for several hours. As long as you can, in fact."

"We can do that," said Alex.

By the time the students had left the meeting, they were all chatting happily about who would come up with the best distraction. It almost hurt Hank, thinking about how innocent these children were in the grand scheme of things. They were so happy. It was a happiness that Charles deserved, but didn't have.

So, needless to say, it was a crazy mansion that he left behind as he hotwired one of the fancy-looking cars in Charles's garage and closed the door. He could hear the explosions in the gardens and the theatrical wailing of one of the kids even behind the garage's cement walls, and he shuddered to think of what he couldn't hear from there.

He hit the gas – nearly braking it with a strength that he wasn't quite used to – and sped out of the garage and into the sunlight, intent on giving Charles back a little of what he had given others.

* * *

><p>The first thing that Hank discovered is that when you don't know where to even start looking for someone, it becomes exceedingly difficult to even bring the search off the ground. The second thing that Hank learned is that being blue and furry was not conducive in being inconspicuous.<p>

He had taken to telling people that he was dressed in a costume and was a street performer. It didn't help much, especially when people were afraid that mutants were going to burst into their homes and kill them. They were jumpy and nervous, more so when Hank sidled past them on the sidewalk.

Thankfully, being blue and furry was good in getting him noticed, and before long he was sitting across from Magneto in a run-down old house after the metal-moving mutant had found him cowering behind a tree while townspeople ran about trying to locate the monster.

Hank had never particularly liked Erik – Magneto, now – in the first place, and now he liked him even less as he sat nonchalantly across the table, stirring coffee and looking regal. Mystique – for he could never call her Raven now, not after she abandoned Charles – was sitting next to Magneto, looking anxious and concerned.

"How is Charles?" she asked as soon as Hank had sat down, her hands nervously tapping the table. "Is he okay? He healed well from the bullet, right?"

"Mystique, please," said Magneto, his eyes focused on Hank. Hank had to affix his eyes on a spot on the table, because he didn't think he could match that intense stare. "Now, Beast, why did you come to me? Are you here to join me?"

"I would never join you," Hank blurted out, his gaze snapping up defiantly and connecting with Magneto's eyes. "Never."

Magneto, for his part, looked rather amused. He stopped stirring his coffee and pushed the chipped mug aside, folding his hands on the table and leaning forward. "And why? So you can continue to follow the Professor, forever to be enslaved by humans? Enslaved by people who fear you, who wish to tame you?" Magneto's lips curled derisively. "They'll put you in a zoo before they accept you."

"Better be entrapped in a zoo than entrapped by guilt." His mind racing, Hank could see that this conversation was taking a wrong turn rather fast. Mystique's face was falling, her initial excitement and nervousness replaced by disgust and incredulity. Magneto, too, looked startled by his statement.

But then Magneto leaned back, looking like he had expected that response all along. "Then why did you come?"

"To mock us?" Mystique jumped in, her anger apparent even on her blue face. "To show us the error of our ways? We will be the ones rejoicing in the end."

"What has he done to you?" Hank whispered, looking at Mystique sadly. For a moment, this seemed to startle her, and Hank could see Raven peeking out, looking just as insecure as she once had. Then her expression closed again, hardened, and Mystique was once again glaring at him.

Magneto stood up, swinging a cape behind him. "I've heard enough," he said. "I will not stand to be made a fool of."

As Magneto began to walk away, Mystique trailing behind him, Hank could feel the walls closing in on him. He needed to help Charles!

"No!" he called, panic setting in. "Wait! I need your help!"

Magneto paused. "You have an odd way of asking for assistance," he said, turning slightly.

"It's not for me," said Hank.

Mystique turned around, her vivid orange eyes seeking out Hank's. "Is it Charles?" she breathed.

"Yes," said Hank. "And you're not going to like what you hear."

* * *

><p>Charles was flummoxed.<p>

Yes, that was a good word for it, he thought. Flummoxed. One moment, he had been sipping at his tea, staring out at the grounds. The next thing he knew, those same grounds were being stripped of their beauty as red wave after red wave assaulted them, tearing them to shreds. Charles knew immediately that it was Alex, and quickly made his way out to the grounds.

But that wasn't what was confusing him. It was how everyone seemed to need him at once. As he calmed Alex, he was virtually surrounded by crying children, each one of them having a story about something that happened.

His kitchen was on fire. One of his bathrooms was flooded. His pool was leaking. A student had wet the bed. Another student had had a nightmare and was now wailing for his mother. And Scott had been struck by lightning.

His felt the early stages of a migraine as he worked on sending out wave after comforting wave of emotions to the students. It didn't seem to work at all, instead getting them more worked up.

Which came back to the flummoxed feeling Charles had. Not only did everyone need him – at once – but his telepathy wasn't working as it should. The students shouldn't still be panicking!

Charles shook his head as he patted the crying child situated on his lap. Alex hovered behind his shoulder, a scowl still firmly planted on his face. Another child was tugging at his sleeve, while Charles could see yet another student running out of the front door, screaming his head off.

Charles blinked. He was definitely going to recruit some teenagers and adults next. People who could help him out. Fewer children. He wasn't sure he could handle all the crying.

It took him hours and hours to finally sort out all the messes. It was nearly midnight when he finally wheeled into his room, exhaustion written in his body language. He sent out a little brainwave to make sure that all the students were in their beds. He could feel Alex, presumably plagued by nightmares, sitting up in the kitchen, accompanied by Banshee and Hank. All three of them felt tense, so Charles sent a quick wave of comfort at them as well as some exhaustion to encourage them to sleep.

Then Charles wheeled over to the window, looked out on his destroyed grounds. Thought about the day.

Thought about how useless he had been, how he could barely comfort the children. How weak his telepathy must be. Now, not only was he physically weak, but mentally too. How he couldn't control the events rapidly spiraling out of control around him.

Charles closed his eyes and hoped for a better day tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

The damn book was on the floor again.

Charles usually cringed away from using strong words like "damn", but at this point in time he could find no better descriptive word for the situation. There were several words he would put to that book, in fact, many words even stronger than damn, but he had already crossed the line of politeness.

Another flaw, Charles thought bitterly. He could be pretty impolite, callous.

But all of his musings weren't moving the book. This time, it hadn't been discarded carelessly, but rather knocked accidentally to the floor. He was still getting used to maneuvering his wheelchair, and knocking into things was inevitable, but when that book toppled to the ground he couldn't help but feel powerless.

His fingers drumming against the armrest of the chair, he stared at the book, willing a new power to manifest and bring the book to him. The book didn't even so much as twitch. Sighing, Charles began to lower himself again, dragging his dead-weight legs down to the ground and reaching out for the book.

Just in time for Hank to enter the room. Charles cursed himself for missing the presence outside the door – another flaw, another chink in his already-holed armor – and even more so for allowing Hank to see him in such a position again.

Hank, for his part, didn't say anything. He smoothly moved forward – Charles admired him for adapting to his new form so quickly, wishing that he himself could adapt to his chair – and swept him up in his arms, depositing him in his chair.

"I was fine, Hank," said Charles softly.

"I know, Professor," said Hank, grabbing the book and placing it back on the table. "But you can always count on me to help you out."

Hank pretended not to notice while Charles wiped at his eyes.

* * *

><p>Later, Charles was in the library, tutoring a young girl in math. She had scales all along her body and her parents had been so terrified that people would persecute her that they had hidden her in their house, not allowing her to go to school or meet her peers. When Charles had come knocking at their door, they had all but pushed the little girl into his arms.<p>

So sad, thought Charles, staring down at the bright young child. How could someone even think about harming someone so good, so innocent? How could they possibly deprive their own family of an education?

Charles shook his head. He was dedicated to rectifying this grievous error, and as such he was personally overseeing her tutoring. He was overseeing a lot of tutoring, in fact. It kept him busy, his mind off matters of a more… kinesthetic nature.

"So, then, the answer is…" the little girl – Mary – paused for a moment, adorably chewing on the end of her pencil. "The answer is seven?"

"Perfect," Charles praised, giving her a genuine smile. Mary smiled back, revealing row after row of sharp, shark-like teeth. Charles didn't even flinch, already knowing this truth, and made sure that she didn't catch even a glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes. He would never make a mistake like he had with Raven again.

Mary shook back her stringy, green hair, and asked, "Professor, I was wondering…"

"Yes?" he prompted, nudging her along. A child like this should be curious, should be encouraged.

"I was wondering if it would be possible for me to take classes with everyone else," she said quickly, her eyes closed, as if anticipating that he would say no. He paused a moment, mulling over the possibility in his mind. His intent hadn't been to separate her, but rather get her caught up so she wasn't confused when entering her classes. But no, she probably would see it as him not wanting her with other children.

He smiled when he saw her squint open one eye, searching for a reaction from him. "If you really wish to be placed in regular classes, then I certainly can't stop you," he said, patting her hand. "You're an excellent student, simply marvelous, and I'm positive that you'll be caught up with them in no time. I'll put you in regular classes as long as you agree to continue to meet with me one-on-one to brush up on some skills. Only once a week, I don't want to monopolize your time." There, the perfect compromise. He would still be able to get her caught up eventually.

She smiled that gruesome smile again. "Oh, thank you Professor!" she cried. She caught him by surprise when she jumped up and hugged him, ignoring the difficulty due to the chair.

He laughed and patted her on the back. "It's my pleasure, Mary. Though I have to say, with your tenacity, you'll be the most popular girl here in no time. Promise not to forget a hapless old man?" he joked, winking at her.

Her face lit up like fireworks on the fourth of July. A pleased blush – green-tinged, not red – spread across her face. "You really think that the others will like me?" she asked, her voice lowered reverently.

He arranged his face into a confused mask. "I don't understand why they wouldn't, luv."

"Well," she shuffled her feet anxiously for a moment, "well, Professor, I wasn't sure if you… well, you really noticed or not, because you're so accepting. But I…" She gestured to her scales and green hair helplessly. "I'm different from them."

"Mary," he said firmly, "They're all thinking the same things about themselves. They're all unsure if they're going to fit in, because they all have similar gifts as you do. Just keep that in mind as you're making friends. Be yourself, and they'll love you for it."

Mary's face lit up again, pleasure sparking across it. "Thank you, Professor!" she said, hugging him again. "Thank you!"

As she left, Charles wondered why she would thank someone like him.

* * *

><p>"Hi Professor."<p>

Charles smiled at Hank. He looked nervous, twisting the hem of his lab coat around in his hand and deforming the edges. "Hank, I've told you before," he said with an uplifting laugh that seemed to comfort Hank, "call me Charles. I hate being called Professor, it makes me feel old." And reminds me that I failed Raven, that I would never be able to teach her the things I was teaching the others.

Hank looked even more nervous now. "All right, Charles," he said, testing it out. "Um, I was wondering if I could talk to you."

Charles frowned at the anxiousness in Hank's voice. "Is anything wrong?" he inquired, rolling forward a bit and staring up at Hank. "Are you okay?"

"_I'm_ fine," he said, putting a noticeable emphasis on the subject of the sentence. "I just really need to talk to you."

"Is someone else hurt?" asked Charles urgently. "Please, Hank, if someone is hurt I need to know immediately. I have to do my utmost to protect the inhabitants of this mansion."

Hank shook his head. "No, Professor – Charles, I'm sorry – it's not a student, you don't have to worry."

Charles relaxed marginally. "Okay then, Hank. What do you need to talk about?"

Hank looked even more nervous, if possible. "I was hoping that we could drive to town to get groceries and we could talk on the way."

"Drive to town?" Charles felt even more confused, if possible. "Why can't we talk here?"

"I'm just afraid that someone is going to… going to overhear," said Hank.

Charles raised his eyebrows. "I can detect people coming and going." Hank knew that, why was he insisting on this?

"Please, Professor," said Hank. "I would be embarrassed if Alex or the others found out."

Charles sent a gentle probe into Hank's mind and was immediately greeted with the images of dirty magazines and girls. He yanked himself out, tampering down a blush, and stammered out, "Oh, I see."

Hank blushed blue. "Did you read my mind?"

"Just the surface thoughts," said Charles. "Yes, I understand why you wouldn't want to be overheard now. Let's go."

He wants my advice, thought Charles as Hank took the wheelchair's handles and began to push him toward the garage. Not just my advice, but advice on girls. On girls! Charles felt strangely flattered, but at the same time a sad feeling overtook him. Now that he had erased Moira's mind, no sane girl would want a man in a wheelchair.

Charles shook the thought away and focused on the coming conversation.

* * *

><p>Hank felt bad.<p>

He had resolutely pushed forward images of the dirty magazines that Sean had showed him, stashed carefully underneath his bed, with the knowledge that the Professor wouldn't go any deeper into his psyche. He would instantly assume that Hank wanted to talk girls. And he did. Hank's plan was working.

But at the same time, Hank wasn't sure if he wanted his plan to work.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone, I'm sorry this chapter is out so late. I was on vacation and my internet connection was spotty the entire time, so I couldn't get online to post this. I'm going to keep this note short and sweet – first, thank you to the people who reviewed. Your words have been very kind and I've treasured every comment. Second, I'm tentatively working out a schedule to update by so that everyone knows when my story will be updated. With stories I've done in the past, I usually updated every two weeks, but I'm pretty sure that I can update quicker than that for this story. It definitely won't be every day, but maybe once a week or once every couple of days. Drop me a word and tell me what would be most convenient for you.

Thanks again for the reviews and thank you for reading!

* * *

><p>Charles listened to the gentle hum of the engine as they set off down the road. They had yet to buy a van that would encompass the necessary equipment for a handicapped person, so Charles had to allow Hank to lift him out of his chair and put him in the passenger seat. They left his normal chair behind, instead opting to pack a foldable chair in its place, since his regular seat didn't travel well. It felt oddly wrong to leave his chair behind, which made Charles feel even worse because he knew that signified that he was getting used to being crippled. And a part of him didn't want to get used to anything.<p>

Hank's knuckles were a pale-looking blue against the steering wheel and he seemed unbearably tense. His blue fur seemed to be standing on end, almost as if his hackles were up. His eyes kept darting around while his grip compulsively loosened and tightened.

"Are you quite all right?" Hank seemed more on edge than the situation called for, considering they were just going to talk about girls.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," said Hank, brushing off Charles's concern. They were down the road now, trees surrounding them. They were beginning to approach the very edge of town, the houses not even in their sights yet.

Hank began to slow down the car. He pulled it over to the side and cut the engine, pulling the keys out of the ignition and beginning to play with them, as if he didn't quite know what to do with his hands.

"Hank?" question Charles. A niggling doubt began to assert itself in his mind. "Hank? What are you doing?"

Hank seemed to be teetering on the brink of a big decision. He opened his mouth and closed it, repeated the process a few times, before gulping and glancing at Charles. This set off the cycle again, until Charles impatiently cleared his throat.

This finally caused Hank to make up his mind. He blurted out, "I'm sorry, Professor. Charles, I mean. I'm so sorry."

Charles startled. "About what?"

Hank paused for a moment. "I… I contacted Magneto."

"Whatever for?" There was only one reason Charles could think of for Hank to talk to Erik, and that would be defecting to the other side. A dull ache began to throb in his chest, a choked feeling.

Hank paused again, before repeating, "I'm sorry, Professor."

Charles closed his eyes resignedly. "It's okay, Hank. You did what you thought was best."

Hank shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "What… what do you think I did, Professor?"

"Why, decided to follow Erik, of course," said Charles.

At this, a small smile split Hank's face. "No," he laughed, "no, I would never join Magneto's cause. I just hope that when you find out what I really talked to him about, you understand."

Charles gave a nervous laugh, unsure how to react. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Hank. Why all this secrecy?"

"Like I said, Professor," said Hank. He paused, then said, "Charles, sorry. That'll take a bit to get used to. Like I said, Charles, I'm sorry."

Charles gave up all pretense of respecting Hank's privacy. Since he had made no promise to Hank as he had to Raven, and since Hank's coherency was rapidly degenerating, Charles sent a gentle probe to Hank's mind. At the forefront, there was a memory.

* * *

><p>"<em>And you're not going to like what you hear."<em>

_Mystique didn't even pause. In several long strides, she was back at the table. Slamming her hands down on the table, she lowered herself down to Hank's level, staring him straight in the eyes._

"_What's wrong with Charles?" It was more of a demand than a question. Her voice was rougher, without the normal human tones she infused in it. Teeth gritted, her orange eyes seemed to spark with fire, looking startling bold compared to the cool blue of her skin. _

_Hank stumbled over his tongue for a moment, not sure where to start. Mystique wasn't having it. She slammed her hands down again, upsetting the mugs on the table. _

"_Tell me. What's. Wrong. With. Charles." With her face screwed up in anger, Hank could no longer find any humanity remaining in Mystique's face. _

_He stuttered out, "He's depressed."_

_Mystique's face smoothed out, relief shining from her very pores. "Oh. That's it? He'll be fine, then. He's probably sad that he lost, well, me." She smiled for a moment, content in the thought that Charles really did need her. She continued on, "And he's upset that Erik left, too. But he'll eventually get over it. Take him to a bar, or something. Let him flirt with some floozy. It'll be all right then."_

"_I think he has more on his mind than just you," said Hank, a little rankled by her casual dismissal._

_But Mystique was already straightening up, turning around. "Right, he's worried about the school, too," said Mystique, nodding. "We heard that you went on a recruiting spree. A lot of responsibility on his shoulders, but I have no doubt that Charles can handle it."_

_Hank nodded. "Of course he can handle the extra responsibility," he agreed, his voice dripping fake sweetness. "Of course he can."_

_Mystique began to walk away again. She seemed to believe that was all. _

_Erik, however, appeared to know there was more. He was studying Hank, like he was some sort of insect pinned down by surgical tools, there only for the advancement of Erik's knowledge. _

"_Of course he can," said Hank again, raising his voice a little, "Of course he can. What he can't handle is being crippled on top of it."_

_Perhaps not the best way to inform Charles's 'sister' and best friend that he no longer had use of his legs. But at that point, Hank was through with the conversation and tired of Mystique's newfound attitude._

_Mystique's entire body froze, her foot still in the air from being lifted to take a step, her mouth comically wide open. _

_Erik's reaction was nearly the same, yet different. He, too, froze, but there was nothing comical about it. His entire face paled, whitened to a dangerous degree. His eyes narrowed, as if assessing if Hank's statement was truthful or not. And then he staggered back, like he had just been hit, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping open. _

_The silence in the room was profound. For years and years, Hank would identify that moment in his life as one of the most uncomfortable experiences he had ever gone through. _

_Even more uncomfortable was when Mystique turned around to fully face him, her arrogant, confident façade broken into a thousand million pieces. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, the blue in her face dulling. _

"_You're…" she took in a deep, gulping breath, "you're joking, right? That bullet didn't hurt him, right? He had to have healed."_

_Hank didn't answer her question. He simply looked at her. _

_And then she broke. _

"_No!" she screamed. "No! He isn't hurt! You're lying!" Several explicatives flew from her mouth. Grabbing Hank's mug off the table, she threw it against the wall, shattering it to small little shards. But she wasn't content to stop there. Next went her mug, Erik's mug. All the while, a steady stream of swears flew from her mouth. _

_Then went the table, flipped over and cracked. The little room that Magneto had brought him to in an abandoned warehouse didn't offer much in the way of things to throw, so Mystique broke off the legs of the table and began to maul the already-cracked windows, sharp glass shards raining down on the grass below._

_Neither Magneto nor Hank moved. Nothing they could say would help. Instead, they allowed Mystique to vent. When she finally ran out of things to throw and smash, Magneto delicately said, "Finished?"_

_For a moment, Hank thought that Mystique might just throw Magneto out the window. Her nostrils flared angrily, though the tears trailing down her face revealed her true feelings. _

"_Yes," she said. "Yes, I'm done."_

_A few moments later, Magneto had new chairs and a new table moved into the room. Steaming cups of coffee were placed on the table. No one drank anything, though Magneto did clutch at the cup like his life depended on it. _

_Silence pervaded the room again. Mystique clearly wasn't in the mood for words, instead looking out the window at the cheerful blue sky. The opposite of her mood. _

_Finally, when it felt like Hank couldn't stand another second of the charged tension, Magneto spoke. _

"_Was it the bullet that did it?" asked Magneto. He didn't meet Hank's eyes. _

"_Yes," breathed Hank._

_For a moment, Magneto looked lost. It was a look that Hank could never have imagined on his face. Then the expression left, wiped carefully blank. _

"_But I saw him move his legs," Magneto frowned. "When I turned him over, his legs moved."_

"_He wasn't instantly paralyzed," admitted Hank. "It was actually turning him over like that and then taking out the bullet in the manner that you did that permanently crippled him. What happened afterwards didn't help either."_

"_Afterwards?" spoke Mystique. She didn't meet Hank's eyes either. "What happened afterwards?"_

"_We couldn't get off the beach fast enough to get him help," said Hank. "The plane was crashed, and we certainly couldn't ask the Navy out there to transport him. So it was up to Alex, Sean, Moira, and me. Sean couldn't fly him and Moira was useless, so I carried him on my back with Alex behind me, making sure I didn't jostle him too much. _

"_Regardless of Alex's help, the six mile trek to the nearest hospital didn't help anything. It was like there was practically no civilization on that part of the island. By the end of the first mile, Charles fell unconscious from the pain, so he wasn't awake for most of it."_

_Hank didn't mention how Charles would fade in and out of awareness, groaning from the pain when Hank would step over a log and jolt him. The worst was when Hank was forced to go uphill and nearly lost his grip on Charles. It moved him so much that Charles screamed, scaring Alex and Sean so badly that they both nearly started hyperventilating. _

_Magneto's grip tightened on his mug. His face was still milky-white. This information, it seemed, pained him. Perhaps he was thinking how Azazel could have easily transported Charles to a hospital, maybe quick enough to save Charles's legs. _

_For a moment, Hank almost felt sorry for the both of them. Mystique's eyes gleamed with a new sheen of tears, slowly trickling down the length of her face and dropping onto the already dotted table. But then he remembered the self-deprecating smile on Charles's face, and any sympathy he felt vanished. _

"_I didn't mean for this to happen," said Magneto. The admission looked like it cost him dearly. He let go of his mug, flexing his fingers to restore the blood flow. _

"_I know," said Hank softly. "But it did. And Charles really needs help."_

"_He's depressed because he can't walk anymore?" Mystique asked. _

"_Partly," said Hank, "but I think that it also stems from… well, the simplistic way to put it would be that he feels useless and insecure."_

"_Useless? Insecure?" Magneto stood up, towering over Hank and Mystique. "Charles Xavier is not useless. He _should not_ be insecure." _

_Hank shrugged. "But that doesn't change the fact that he still feels that way."_

"_Then I suppose we'll have to change that," said Magneto._

* * *

><p>"Oh, Hank," said Charles. "I'll be fine."<p>

"I don't think you will, Professor. Not without help." Hank looked determined – which looked rather frightening on his new face. "And I made sure that you'll get it."

Charles's car door opened. He glanced up to meet Erik's eyes.

"Hello, Charles."


	5. Chapter 5

A sorry probably won't help… but I do apologize for the lateness of this update.

* * *

><p>"Hello, Charles."<p>

"Hello Erik," Charles replied. Erik's response was written across his face - his name was Magneto now - but Charles arranged his face into polite stubbornness. He would never call Erik by that silly nickname, never.

Erik let the subject drop before it was even vocalized and said, "I believe we need to talk."

There were a hundred responses that Charles could have chosen. You gave up that right when you left me on that beach, to be dragged miles and miles to the nearest hospital to repair the damage that you caused. We have nothing to talk about. It's none of your business. I'm fine. Go away. Leave me alone. Please, just let me live in peace.

All of these were on the tip of his tongue, but the words that rolled out of his mouth instead were, "How is Raven doing?"

"_Mystique_ is doing well," he replied. "A little sad, but better than expected."

"Good," Charles nodded. He scanned the forest surrounding them. Azazel stood nearby, politely not listening. Other than that, Erik had brought no backup except for the helmet resting atop his head.

Hank got out of the car and bustled around a bit, opening up the back of the car and bringing out the portable wheelchair. He set it up quickly, his hands moving quickly and deftly despite their size and bulk. Before long, he had the chair set up and placed next to the passenger's side door.

Unfortunately, this presented somewhat of a problem to Charles. He had no desire to let Erik see him so vulnerable. Truthfully, he had no desire to let _anyone_ see him so vulnerable. So naturally, Charles didn't want Hank to help him into the chair. But if Hank didn't help him into the chair, he would make a fool of himself struggling to transfer himself.

So he allowed Hank to scoop him up and deposit him in the portable wheelchair. Charles made sure that he didn't seem too weak by doing this, staring Erik challengingly in the eye, daring him to make a comment.

Erik didn't say anything. Charles detected a hint of sadness in his face. He probably imagined it.

Hank stepped back nervously. "I'm sorry for the deception, Professor."

"It's okay, Hank," said Charles. "This was inevitable one way or the other. Thank you for the help."

Hank nodded doggedly and shuffled back to the car, throwing uneasy looks back at the ragtag group of people on the roadside. Charles's last view of Hank was of him sitting in the car, watching as Azazel grasped his shoulder and teleported them away.

They arrived in what was clearly an abandoned warehouse. Charles could hear the blaring horns of boats indicating that they were on the coast as well as the clamoring of bells and the chattering of people. It created a cacophony of noise that was almost deafening, especially considering the windows were all broken open, exposing them to more sounds.

Erik made no apology for the makeshift headquarters, instead wheeling him over to a worn-looking table. Nodding at Azazel, who promptly poofed away, Erik took a seat himself.

"So," said Erik conversationally, "how have you been?"

This felt surreal, but Charles simply smiled and said, "I've been well, my friend. How have you been holding up?"

Erik smiled a predatory smile. He opened his mouth but was interrupted by Azazel teleporting back into the room with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate. When Azazel left again, Erik grabbed his mug, stirring the scalding liquid inside mindlessly.

"You're not well."

"Pardon me?" started Charles, not expecting the blunt honesty of his friend.

"I can tell, Charles. Even if Hank hadn't approached me, the very look of you is off," said Erik firmly.

"I think I look fine," said Charles, affronted.

"Please, Charles. I know sick when I see it." Erik leaned forward, earnestness in his eyes. Charles remembered memories of concentration camps… people starving to death, desperate for even a scrap of life-giving sustenance… the stench of death when the person in the bed next to you contracts dysentery or pneumonia or any disease… the look in a child's eye when they realized that they would never see their parents again…

Charles brushes away the memories that aren't his and stares into Erik's eyes, glad for the moment that Erik has on that helmet and that he didn't have to relive those snippets of time through his eyes.

Charles thoughtfully sips at the hot chocolate, wrapping his hands around the cup to warm them. "I suppose you know better than most, yes. But even the best of us can be fallible."

Erik shook his head. "I know what that statement implies, even if you don't. You're beginning to think that you're worthless, that you're fundamentally flawed."

"I don't think you exactly know matters of the mind, Erik," said Charles, amusement coloring his tone. "I believe that is more my field."

"Yet you can be so blind, so naive. Have you looked in a mirror lately? This, all of this," Erik waved a hand at Charles, "is an act. You've got your perfect British smile pasted to your face. Your suit is neatly pressed, your tie perfectly aligned and matched to your outfit. And yet your mask is cracked."

Charles no longer felt amused. "Mask? Cracked? My friend, I believe that I'm not the one cracked."

Erik ignored him. "Little cracks all over the place. Nothing big, nothing substantial in itself. But added together, they paint the bigger picture."

Charles opened his mouth to deny it, but Erik was already continuing. "You're thinner."

"I haven't had much time to eat lately," Charles said quickly.

"You have bags underneath your eyes."

"It's hard to sleep when you've got a mansion full of nightmare-ridden children. They're mutants, they require special care."

"Your accent is thicker."

"My accent is always like this."

"Your statements indicated self-deprecation."

"No they don't, you're just looking for that. If you look that closely, you're bound to find something that you can twist into fitting it."

It was as if nothing he was saying was making an impact on Erik. He began ticking the reasons off on his fingers. "So, let's add it together. We have a man who, in the space of twenty minutes, managed to lose his little sister, his best friend, and his ability to walk. Weeks later, he looks thinner, has bags underneath his eyes, and says things that sound self-pitying. I think we can assume that you're going through a rough time and aren't taking it well."

Charles had had enough. "This is ridiculous," he said coldly. "Absolutely ridiculous. I appreciate what you're trying to do here, Erik, but you're trying to fix a problem that isn't there. I'm perfectly fine. And if you don't mind, I have a lot to get done today. I have a mansion full of children in need of guidance, and I plan on being there to be the parent they never had."

Charles didn't hesitate in wheeling himself over to the door, despite having no idea what lay on the other side. Reaching up to the handle, he discovered it was locked.

"Erik, let me out," said Charles, his patience rapidly depleting.

"No." Erik leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes surveying Charles. "I don't think I will."

For a moment, Charles was at a loss. There was nothing he could really do in this situation. Scream? No, he would never do something like that, especially considering no one here was likely to help him. Maybe, if Erik didn't have the helmet on, he could have controlled him into letting him out. But Erik did have the helmet on, so that option was out the window.

So there was no other way to do this, then. Charles wheeled back to the table, trying in every way to look like he hadn't just been beaten. He stared Erik in the eye. Anger prickled at the back of his mind when he saw the laughter dancing in Erik's expression, but he tamped down on it.

"Do you plan on letting me go anytime soon?" asked Charles.

"As soon as we work some things out," said Erik. "I have all the time in the world."

"I don't."

"Then I suppose we better get started."


End file.
